Vince and Howard Make History
by Misakami
Summary: Howard and Vince look out for each other. It is only natural some feelings may get stirred up. Howince. Jealousy over many things. Rated M for adult themes. Mrs. Giddeon might make an appearance.


Short writing about Howard and Vince. Takes place after the episode Journey to the Centre of the Punk. Might write more than this, could turn into a chapter thing.

* * *

There was thunder outside, and Howard felt restless. Through the dirty window of his cramped bedroom he saw the night sky light from black to grey-purple, over and over again. Every few seconds a new flash of lightning illuminated his hard scrubbed room, casting shadows on the peeling wallpaper.

It made him uneasy.

Howard Moon didn't care for storms. Never had. The growling clouds and flickering sky kept him up late, although that wasn't all that was keeping him up. Suffice it to say, the weather outside reflected the turmoil within. Deep down, Howard felt anxious. He sat up in bed, lie back down, then sat up again. He glanced wistfully at the book on his bureau, A Brief History of Scat in Jazz. The bookmark lay about 180 pages in, but his stomach churned at the thought of cracking it open. He'd done a horrible thing today. He, Howard Moon, had betrayed jazz.

_For a good cause. It would have killed Vince if I hadn't. _

Howard breathed a deep sigh. He picked up his book and stared gently at the cover. Timidly he leafed through the worn, perfumed pages. It smelled of simpler times. Before this afternoon. Before he'd tried to kill the rogue jazz cell. He'd been happy before.

How did he feel now?

_Angry, _he decided. Howard thought about what Vince had said, about internalizing his anger. It was unhealthy. Howard glanced down at his arm. Tentatively he brushed back the sleeve of his pajamas. The skin was raw, and tiny pinpricks of blood pooled at his pores where he'd rubbed in a Chinese burn. Howard felt queasy looking at it and quickly brushed the sleeve back down, massaging his arm guiltily.

He wasn't angry at himself, yet he decided he was deserving of injury. Howard threw his book on the floor, but felt no better. He bit his lip. Lightning danced in his eyes. Howard threw back the covers and left his room, heading for the tiny kitchenette in the flat above Naboo's shop.

It was dark when Howard arrived there. He grabbed a glass from the overhead cupboard and held it under the faucet. He wasn't really thirsty. He wasn't hungry either. The water was cold, though, and helped shake him from the numbness that had set in. Howard had two cups, switched off the faucet and placed the glass in the sink.

"Howard?"

Lightning from the far windows lit up the large room. Howard was thankful he'd set the glass down, otherwise he'd have dropped it. Instead he yelped and smacked his arm against the edge of the counter. He crumpled at the waist, pain rendering him speechless.

When the wave of agony had passed Howard glanced up. Vince was sitting quietly on the couch, his legs tucked under him. His lips were pressed together softly, and his eyes gawked in their sockets, massive as ever.

"Having a laugh?" Howard snapped, standing upright and clutching his injured forearm. He instantly regretted his tone and mumbled something mildly apologetic under his breath to appease his guilt. His eyes touched Vince once, twice, darting away frequently, to the ceiling, to the corners, seeking sanctuary from from the gaze of his friend, almost invisible in the soft darkness.

"Alright?" Vince asked. He was wearing a baggy green tunic, lacy around the loose collar with lighter green bell-bottoms. Little green moccasins poked out from under his thighs, squashed beneath his awkward criss-cross position. His hair was barely wavy; it had been a few hours since he'd straightened it, and it had been slept on. He looked sober.

"Fine. Thanks." Howard cleared his throat and drummed his fingers against the counter. The silence stretched between the two of them. The room was quiet. The lightning seemed to have paused, but the thunder rolled on outside. Having nothing more to say, Howard turned to leave the room.

"I'm sorry, Howard."

More silence, but Howard had hesitated.

"Sorry for what?" he muttered at last.

Light filled the spacious room, making Howard blink furiously. Vince had switched on a lamp. He had one hand tangled in his hair, pulling at a few locks, stretching them down over his ears. "I'm sorry I broke the record. I wish I hadn't."

Howard thought back to that morning. The joy he'd experienced, having a treasure in his hands after twenty years of waiting, soon stolen from him. Vince's punk friends swam before his eyes. He could see it all clearly. The way they mucked about the shop, touching merchandise, rearranging Stationary Village, spreading their germs. He recalled the listless way they had tossed around his prized record, ignoring his pleas and disrespecting jazz. Finally it was handed off to Vince. His friend Vince, the same Vince who would ruin the record with his teeth in the blink of an eye. Twenty years down the drain. Without even an apology.

Well, there was an apology. Howard didn't want to look up at Vince. His heart was throbbing. He felt the lump in his throat pulse with every bitter beat. His voice was thick.

"Yeah, well," he cleared his throat, "yeah."

"I mean it Howard," Vince pressed on. Howard heard the couch creak as Vince shifted his weight. "And thanks for saving my life."

What else did Howard want to hear? To be completely honest, he wasn't sure anything Vince had to say could ease the pain he felt. He finally allowed himself to look up. Vince was staring straight at him, leaning forward.

"A thousand euros, it was," Howard managed, hollowly. The money was unimportant. "But uh, it's too bad about the band."

"Yeah," Vince agreed quietly. "I don't really need them though, I'll make it on my own. Besides, punk's not really my style. In fact, I've come up with this new idea, it's genius really." Vince chuckled. He was grinning. "Of course, you're part of it Howard. You're an integral piece in my musical vision."

Howard laughed dryly.

"I was thinking, we could head in a new musical direction. We could start a revolution, Howard, we'll go down in history. With my connections and your musical ability, we'll have girls knocking down the door day and night. " Vince picked a ceramic bowl up off the coffee table. He spooned some ice cream out of it and kicked back, looking off in what Howard could only assume to be the direction of the future.

"Yeah, sounds great." Howard started for his bedroom door. "I'll just leave you to it, then."

"Goodnight, Howard."

"Night, Vince." The lamp clicked off as lightning shone outside the window.

Howard drew the curtains over his window, and slept easier that night.


End file.
